


The Real Question

by Shadow_Side



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-25
Updated: 2013-08-25
Packaged: 2017-12-24 15:04:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/941378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadow_Side/pseuds/Shadow_Side
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To Kolya, interrogation is art, and truth the masterpiece.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Real Question

It is fascinating, in a way, how little most people understand the art of interrogation. Acastus Kolya, certainly, has long known that most others think it either random – hurried pressure in a difficult situation – or textbook, scripted, following a distinctive pattern; time honoured tricks, played out over and over.

Sometimes it is. But to those who know it, do it, understand it… there is so much more to the process than this. It is art, not science; the subject must be played, must be sculpted to the will of the one questioning them. And to best do so, every aspect, every element, must be perfectly controlled, perfectly enacted.

This day is just the same. The man upon whom the focus now falls – a Pelosan believed to be on a drive to incite violence against the Genii – is one Kolya had never heard of before this morning. Indeed, he knew little of the man's people, their organisation, their culture – little more than a cursory awareness of their existence.

Now he knows everything; everything the Genii know, at least. He has spent the morning reading file after file, mission reports, cultural breakdowns, and – most critically – psychological profiles.

Wherever you go in the galaxy, sooner or later, you will find a prevalent belief that knowledge is power. And it is – it is power, and it is a weapon, one far more effective than any blade or firearm.

Not that those aren't useful too, of course.

The room is cool, but not cold; dim, but not dark; small, but not cramped. It screams of danger without genuinely explaining why, of threat without ever making one. Simple, grey walls stretch from a blank, grey floor to an equally blank, flat ceiling. And though the layout of uncovered bricks breaks up the patina of the wall somewhat, there are only so many times one could count them – up and down, left to right, diagonal strikes – until they become nothing but bricks again, boxing the occupant in, surrounding him, broken only by a single door that never seems to open.

It is the kind of room that would facilitate pacing, were the man in it able to move. But he is not. Instead, he is seated in a single, metal chair, its surfaces smooth but sharp-edged. His wrists, dragged behind his back, are bound to the chair with thin, pale rope; wound around and around, tight and immovable. The marks will take days to fade… but they are the least of his worries now.

He keeps his head up. They usually do, at first – desperate to seem as strong as possible despite everything; desperate to imply some lingering semblance of control, of strength, even though they know they have neither.

Not on the outside, at least. Kolya knows that. It is easy to take away someone's physical power, their ability to control the outside world, but it is far harder to destroy their inner power.

That is the beauty of it. If you can do that, you can do anything. Breaking the body is nothing. Breaking the mind is everything.

There is a table in the room, too, though it seems to serve little purpose at the moment – given that the chair is set well back from it, and nothing currently lies upon it. It is a simple object indeed, yet almost threatening in a way; blank and angular, catching the low light on its metallic surface in much the same way as light can catch the edge of a blade.

It is not quite straight, either. This has a tendency to annoy a lot of people.

One of the most important things about a door that never seems to open is the way a person reacts when it finally _does_ open. Often the prevalent hope is that the door will _keep_ not-opening, long enough for some other way out of the situation to present itself.

If the door opens before the solution appears, this is bad.

Acastus Kolya has always had an odd talent for affecting people simply by the way he opens and closes doors. It's something that very few have ever been able to completely work out – save, perhaps, for Athos. But that is another story entirely.

It's a well-known and better understood fact, however, that he doesn't like _open_ doors. This is much easier to explain. Control comes from being able to affect everything – and an open door marks the existence of an area beyond immediate control. So when he finally walks into the room – and he does, of course – the first step after moving beyond the newly-opened door is to close it again.

Today, he does so quietly. Those experienced enough in the art of reading Kolya will tell you that this likely means three specific things: one, he is probably having a good day; two, he is trying to lull his subject into a false sense of security – as much as one can, of course – and three, he is plotting something.

He's usually plotting something. But probably more so today.

Slowly, Kolya approaches the man in the room. There's no speech yet – no reason for the commander to break the effective silence, and no will for his subject to provoke anything unnecessarily.

When Kolya does speak, however, he gets right to the point. There is no reason to make small talk whilst working – not unless there _is_ a reason. When there isn't, focus remains essential. But when there's plenty of time, there's no reason to launch immediately into the most important questions.

Not necessarily. The desired effect is what dictates that.

Most untrained men – and that is a great many of the people Kolya tends to end up interrogating in rooms like this – are easy to play. The ones with training, with practice, with experience – usually military men, or undercover operatives – are much more challenging, and require different approaches.

This man will probably fall somewhere in the middle, and it is this group whose members are the most interesting. Learning how to play them – how precisely to push all their buttons – is a fascinating challenge, slightly different every time.

Kolya voices his first question, and the man looks at him in quiet surprise. Finding out that people know things about you before they've actually asked is rather disconcerting. But he won't respond, not yet, because he has no reason to. He doesn't want to answer, and has no actual _proof_ that failing to do so is a bad idea.

Of course, he knows it is really. But he still hopes that it isn't. They all do.

The next step, therefore, is to offer that proof. There are a nigh-on infinite number of ways to do this – but Kolya usually comes back to the time-honoured favourite.

He draws his knife. If you happen to _like_ watching dangerous men draw bladed weapons, this is perhaps one of the most incredible things you're likely to see for some time. If you _don't_ like it, however, the effect is obvious.

Bright, unhidden fear flares in the man's eyes, as that low, slow _chink_ cuts through the air. He doesn't move – doing so has a tendency to make one look like more of a target. Though it would be hard to look like _more_ of a target than this man does right now.

There's silence, for a second, though the echo of that single metallic ching no doubt continues to ring in the man's mind, long after its brief existence in the outside world has ended. Then the man speaks, though he doesn't offer any answers yet. Oddly, this is commonplace. When faced with initial threat, a lot of people tend to stand firm as opposed to doing what they know will reduce that danger.

It would be boring if they didn't, though.

Verbal threats are less interesting than non-verbal ones. Verbal threats are clear, precise, whereas non-verbal ones work precisely because they _aren't_ clear – because they contain that beautiful element of the unknown that most men cannot quite cope with.

But verbal threats are necessary, nonetheless, and Kolya makes his with calm, level confidence. When this still does not work – and oh, it usually doesn't – he moves in.

There are many ways to do this – especially if one happens to be interrogating alongside someone else, which is an art form all of its own. This time, Kolya chooses to stand in front of the man, to half-kneel in front of him and stare right into his eyes.

The man shivers. Perfect.

Slowly, Kolya raises the knife to slip the tip of the blade under his subject's chin, forcing him to lift his head and re-establish the eye-contact that he's fighting to avoid. The commander speaks quietly at this point, his words offering a flicker of potential hope that co-operation might provide.

Good Cop/Bad Cop, though not the Genii term, is a fascinating thing – but far more interesting is what happens when one person plays both at once. It's harder, certainly – one has to make an effort to use specific reveals which allow the subject to tell the two halves apart. But it works because splitting the person's responses can be quite effective in splitting them, in fracturing the delicate balance within the mind.

In breaking them.

The man was responding with firm – if frightened – defiance before. Now he too is quiet, grudgingly re-accepting the eye-contact that he's been forced to make. He won't answer, though, despite the barest flicker that suggests he wants to.

Unemotional, Kolya stands again. The man doesn't like this. Of course he doesn't. There's a distinct element of threat to it all, made more obvious as the commander moves to stand behind his subject. A hand on his shoulder, the other now playing the blade against the man's arm, and Kolya gives him the real ultimatum.

Breaking men with words alone is extraordinarily difficult. It requires a person of the right mindset, and an interrogator who knows _exactly_ how to play their subject. It can be done, oh yes, but not often. At all other times, one needs action.

Words, action and timing, in fact. And of the three, Kolya most likes the last. He knows precisely how long to wait before the gentle play of the knife becomes a sudden, sharp cut along the man's left arm, and precisely how drawn-out to make that move, how long to leave the blade in place before he pulls it back.

The man cries out at once. In his early days as an interrogator, Kolya had often thought of this as a sign that the subject in question was going to break fairly quickly – or, at least, give in long enough to reveal the information wanted from him. But now, Kolya knows that that sudden, frightened scream does not necessarily mean all of this will be over soon.

Some people, it seems, just happen to be very loud.

And this man, certainly, does not become any more forthcoming in the face of the blood now streaking his arm. He whimpers for a moment even once the blade is lifted back, whispering under his breath.

Pleading for some other way out of this. There isn't one.

Kolya asks his question again, and the man turns, trying to look the commander in the eyes, even though he can't. When his head drops once more, another refusal to answer hanging bitter on the man's lips, the blade wordlessly comes to rest against his arm again.

There are a lot of places on the body that can be cut without causing serious permanent damage or high risk of death, but Kolya has always favoured the arms, given that they are easy to access. Plus, the risk of something unexpected happening to cause greater injury is less likely. That is one reason why Kolya is inclined to stay away from the torsos of his subjects.

At least, to begin with. Having a way to up the ante is always helpful, however.

The cry is more desperate this time, though once it dies down there is silence. There is, however, still no offer of an answer, and the man is already tensing in anticipation of further pain.

Seeming to change tactics can be very effective. A person who thinks he knows what's going to happen, and that he might be able to cope with it, can sometimes lock up at this point; retreating into a certain type of headspace from which it can require a lot of effort to retrieve him.

Besides, variety is always important.

Slowly, Kolya walks around to stand in front of his subject again, dropping down to eye-level with his knife-arm resting very deliberately on his knee. The reason for doing this is obvious – because the way that red-streaked silver catches the light, clear and threatening, is an effective reminder of what is to come. And the delicate play of blood across the blade is beautiful; beautiful and deadly, something to be seen and never forgotten, a sign of the awesome fragility of life.

We are all so close to the edge. But few of us genuinely wish to be pushed over it.

The man shivers again, unnerved – though also relaxing just slightly in this moment of relief. He knows, now, that when Kolya is in front of him, the likelihood of further pain is greatly reduced.

These deliberate reveals work so well.

The commander speaks more quietly, more levelly, when he's half-kneeling like this. He seems much more reasonable, as if he genuinely _doesn't_ want to hurt you, as if all of this is painful necessity and nothing more.

To believe that is intensely naïve. But in a difficult situation, a lot of people still do.

This man clearly wants to, yet part of him is fighting back, just strongly enough to stop him answering the question there and then. Unperturbed, Kolya stands again, moving back into place, the knife held ready.

He'll do this for as long as is necessary. As long as it takes.

***

Almost an hour later the door re-opens at last, and Kolya steps into the corridor, setting off to report on what he's learnt. In the room, silence has returned once more, though it is a silence heavy with realisation – realisation that it is over, that the truth is out, that strength and resilience and endurance were all not enough.

The man has his head hung, now, soundless tears finally streaking his face in this suddenly devoid world. He won't look up, not for some time – not whilst his mind will still let him try to hold back the memories by blocking everything out.

He shivers as a tear runs along his jaw, flaring a flicker of sense-memory back into life – the memory of a blade-tip tracing the same path. It is something he won't be able to forget, for however much longer he lives.

And though this last moment remains unseen, Kolya can still detect the true beauty in all this, in having what it takes to play someone to this point – to wield control and threat and knowledge all at once.

Sooner or later, everyone breaks. That is not the point. What matters is how, when, _why_ – and that, oh yes, that – is the real question.


End file.
